


Sleeping Satellites

by SkyHighDisco



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy Clarkson Needs A Hug, Richard Hammond needs a hug, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: They don't talk about it. That is their biggest problem. Then Richard's brain decides it's enough.Sister-fic to "Little Boxes".
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & Richard Hammond
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Sleeping Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> As probably the whole fandom is aware, [Ymas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymas/pseuds/Ymas) is entirely unselfish when it comes to sharing information. So she mentioned how Jeremy's previous house had a guest room that was accessible to a separate stairway outside the house, but that the walls were thin so you could hear everything. 
> 
> She is also responsible for the first five rows. They are all hers.
> 
> *inhale* I must make one justification first, bear with me. I know that at some point in Top Gear days Richard had a financial crisis and had to sell his Ferrari to pay rent because he didn’t have any income, but I assume that was way earlier in TG days. I simply moved the thing of the matter to somewhere between April and May 2015.

“Hammond, what are you doing here?”

Richard grabs his overnight bag from the backseat and lets TG out of the boot. “Mindy is visiting her parents and took the girls.”

Jeremy blinks. “...so...?”

“What do you mean, so?”

Richard frowns at the shellshocked puzzlement of Jeremy, whose hand has gone a bit limp so the garden hose hung sadly, splashing water from the flower beds onto the dry gravel. Like him (and the dog) being here is a completely normal thing.

The dog notices and recognizes Jeremy and immediately trots over, tail wagging and demanding pets.

“So you didn’t bother calling, perhaps?” elaborates Jeremy, fingers wiggling under TG’s chin. “Nothing drastic, ‘hey, Jeremy, I’m on my way, be there in ten minutes’ would’ve been sufficient. I could’ve had someone over.”

Richard avoids Jeremy’s eyes while muttering, and the garden hose eats half his words, but Jeremy knows the construction of Richard’s voice so well that he simply cannot miss it. “I know you didn’t, though.”

Jeremy has no answer to that. Even more, the way Richard says it isn’t just apologetic in an irritating hint. It isn’t just what he says, it’s _how_ he says it, and it isn’t a mocking material. Nothing in the past six months has been funny, and as hard as Jeremy has to try to forgive himself, he cannot allow himself to give in in front of Richard.

Not now when by all body language, Richard seems to be needing Jeremy probably as much as Jeremy needs Richard. And by the same body language, Jeremy knows he won’t get an answer to what else exactly bothers Richard until he is prepared to say it himself. Pushing and prying will only make him draw into himself and it’ll be even harder for Richard to cope after that. Even as part of the answer to what exactly is obvious.

Jeremy doesn’t vocalize any of this out, and with the finest acting skills doesn’t let it show, either. Simply holds out a hand.

Richard hands him his bag.

The hose is dropped to the ground, vomiting over the gravel, smothering it in water.

* * *

The house is quieter than Richard remembers. Too quiet. The smell of wine and beer is dueling in the air. Given how he’s come as unannounced as he could be, Richard gets the idea of how Jeremy is dealing with all the adversities that have befallen him akin to cold water tipped out of the bucket. Wine bottles are huddled together on the dining table, surrounded by two or three glasses smudged in reddish-purple remains or the forgetfulness tool.

Richard can’t say he is surprised, but the sight still pains him. James would disapprove not just the state of the house, but Jeremy’s pathetic choice of low-quality wine as well. 

James from whom he hasn’t heard since…

Jeremy can’t hide the guilt and embarrassment well so he busies himself in fishing out a small-sized bowl to pour water in and lower it down for TG to drink. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself afterwards, leaning against the kitchen counter, lips pressed together and the only sound in the house being TG lapping.

Usually he wouldn’t shut up by now. From the second he’d see Richard, Jeremy’s tongue would go off and wouldn’t stop until he was sprawled halfway across the table, nose and cheeks pink and the same tongue slowed by slurry uncoordination until the blackout happens. Then the next morning, enthusiastic arguments would give way to moaning. And so it would circle around.

The silence is eerie. Even eerier than the dishevelled appearance of the room and even more dishevelled look of the man responsible for it. Unkempt hair with outgrown curls, lightening grey swishes growing outwards to the sides, dark rings around the eyes, deepened wrinkles, face even more sagged than normal, sprouting a two-week stubble. And the eyes; dimmed, void of light they would usually beam with.

Richard finds it difficult to breathe and it has nothing to do with the stuffy house reeking of b.o. and in desperate need of airing. Richard swallows and decency speaks over his selfish, peeling heart, albeit in a shivering, hushed voice. “I can leave if you want me to.”

Before he can even finish, Jeremy’s head flinches his way, and a “no” that he barks is sharp enough to startle not just Richard, but the thirsty dog as well.

Clearly, what Jeremy wanted to express, exploding suddenness and all, was alarm, and not anger. Nevertheless, the look on his face immediately shifts to something between regret and fright. Like he’s expecting Richard to gather TG and leave where he came from, which, Jeremy discovers — despite appearing out of nowhere — isn’t what he wants the younger man to do.

“No. Please. Stay. Just… haven’t had much rest.”

It could’ve gone unsaid, but it didn’t.

It _is_ felt.

Jeremy pulls another bottle from the fridge and heads to the living room without even a glance over his shoulder. Knowing the other will follow. And Richard should stop him, given the content on the table. The horrible stuffiness in the air. But at the same time, he realizes he wouldn’t be much different off alone over the weekend.

He wordlessly walks after Jeremy, step heavy and fatigued.

* * *

They don’t talk much.

They are both heavy with unsaid words.

Jeremy wordlessly gives Richard the key to the spare room after the bottle is emptied. It’s an adjoining part of the house accessible by a rickety back staircase, basically an atelier. Nevertheless, no matter how separate it looks and sounds, it is nestled against the rest of the house, separated from Jeremy’s bedroom merely by a thin wall. More often than not it would prove to be a sour decision, putting guests there. Jeremy never knew there were so many ways to ruin the concept of lovemaking forever. And insults. Strands of colourful insults. To the expense of himself and his house, and even his dog.

But Richard is Richard. And he knows his way. Jeremy doesn’t have to escort him there. He isn’t momentarily capable, already on his way to unconsciousness.

Richard needs to muster all leftovers of strength and will to stagger up the narrow curvy steps, jab the key into the lock correctly and try not to trip over TG as he lets her inside first. Being the middle of the spring, it wasn’t as gnawingly cold as it would be in winter, but had it not been for alcohol swimming down his vessels and warming him up, Richard would doubtlessly shiver in sudden temperature change. And he refuses to acknowledge it isn’t the only cause of the shivers.

Like this, he can barely remember to heel the shoes off. He immediately flops facefirst onto the bed, an angry swarm of tempestuous thoughts dipped in the warm honey of drowsiness and the effect of the wine.

It’s been weeks since he’s fallen asleep this fast.

* * *

Richard is snapped awake by something that has scurried away beyond the horizon of the awareness before he even manages to realize he isn’t asleep anymore. He needs to squeeze his eyes shut immediately as his whole skull rings with the blows of a vengeful headache, spilling its toxicity into his sinuses.

When he quietly moans in pain, it’s abruptly cut off. And after Richard next opens his eyes, the pain that mocks him becomes secondary when he realizes the hand he was going to lift to massage his forehead with hasn’t come up.

Richard tries again to no avail. His arm is glued to the bed. When he attempts to lift his head or roll over, trying not to panic, he panics big time.

His body doesn’t move an inch.

Completely unresponsive.

It’s strange. Like the link between his brain and his limbs is severed somewhere halfway.

He’s done it, he thinks, realizing he can’t even hyperventilate. He’s finally gotten himself so drunk he’s paralyzed himself. The hopelessness and desperation immediately begin to settle after the realization, having Richard triple his attempts. But nothing works. Nothing gives in. And he is stuck.

The blank ceiling has no answers written across it. It’s the only thing in the dim, gloomy field of vision. Only it, complete silence, and darkness.

There’s a small tingle to Richard’s right. Richard immediately recognizes it as TG’s collar, which only ever jingles like that when she moves her head around really fast. Useful recognition feature since he doesn’t have her in visual. He wants to call for her, have her come to him like she will magically get him unstuck. Only to discover he can’t talk either.

This makes him try shouting; shortly, like a bark. And it barely produces a huff through the nose before calming back down to a regular breathing rhythm. It’s ridiculously terrifying. Like his body had put his brain under time out in order to be left alone.

Richard doesn’t like this lack of control one bit.

Then TG starts growling.

TG never growled. Ever. Not around strangers, other dogs, cats, donkeys, goats, chickens. She never, ever growled in all these years that they’d had her. This is a new sound. A low, scratchy rumble. Like a cheap motorbike. It dies out and then repeats itself a moment later, louder. Firmer. 

“What is it?” Richard desperately wants to ask, horrified when he feels panic and dread easily beginning to give place to a pure sort of fear. Richard doesn’t like being afraid. He doesn’t want to.

TG’s growl turns to a fuck-off ‘boof’ kind of bark.

And then the whispering starts.

First Richard thinks it’s only blood pumping in his ears and he’s imagining things, but it unabatedly continues. Never clear enough for the words to be distinguishable, and they may not have been the words in the first place, but the mere fact that it existed, that it actually fed into Richard’s ear sensors, is terrifying on its own.

Richard’s one weak attempt at justifying it is Jeremy talking in his sleep. But there is so much of impossible in that claim, that it’s immediately dismissible even under the cost of greater improbability. The walls aren’t that thin.

And if Richard’s ears are still serving him well, he is certain the noises aren’t coming from behind the wall. Rather, they seem to be coming from everywhere.

And when the whispering intensifies, words still unintelligible, he realizes he’s wrong. Not from around him.

From _under_ him.

As soon as the realization settles in, TG’s growls turn to whines. Frightful, quiet whining, one which easily comes with an image of the labradoodle pressed into the corner, attempting to curl into herself to appear as invisible and small as possible.

The edge of the mattress dips in. Small shuffling sounds. A frantic hand is grasping around until it finds Richard’s forearm and clutches it like its life depends on it. Richard wants to jump out of his skin. He wants to escape, yell, wants to look, wants to shake the unfamiliar grip off. He can do none of it.

He begins to whimper.

There are more hands; thin, long-fingered, strange, unwelcoming. They grab around the mattress and the covers until they find him. His wrist, his arms, his legs, his chest. They brush over his neck, they make him want to scream.

His whimpers grow to fretful moans and his teeth won’t unclench. TG’s whimpers grow into cries.

Then he’s sinking into the mattress. The tug is insistent and demanding, Hands are pulling, sinking him, suffocating. The room broadens and wobbles, the ceiling is twisty and unreal. TG is wailing or laughing, mocking or moaning, singing or exulting.

Richard inhales through his nose and does his best to scream with everything he has. It comes out through the prison bars of gritted teeth. He knows somehow if he is pulled through, if he sinks underneath, he will never come out again. His lungs are collapsing and each of his muscles is heavy like a mountain rock.

Then there is a loud bang and it’s like his mind explodes into a spinning twister of colours and sounds that aren’t supposed to be existing together at the same time.

* * *

Jeremy isn’t the one to get woken up by small noises.

But thank goodness he does now.

He doesn’t appreciate when his sleep is torn through in the middle of the night by soft rumbles that grow louder and get distinguished as a growling TG. Jeremy strongly dislikes the pain in his head that rumbles when he groans, which annoys him even more. He shoves the pillow in his face when she starts whining and in this liable state tries to decide which one would be more effective; bang on the wall with his fist to wake Richard up and get her to shut it, or call him on the phone to startle the life out of him.

Before he can do either, another sound joins the fusion of irritating stimulants.

A whimper. A whimper that is wobbly, weak, and pathetic; in complete contrast to a man who is everything that the sound isn’t. Which makes it all the more wrong to hear.

At first Jeremy can only lay there, listening in bewilderment and horror as Richard makes sounds he’s never made before, and clutch the edge of his covers as they continue to grow. All initial irritation has abandoned him now, replaced by increasingly fastening heartbeat and hairs on his arms standing on end.

Until Richard begins to attempt to scream, and Jeremy understands.

He catapults out of the bed, stumbles into the slippers and out of the room. Out of the house, gets bitten by chilly spring night, resists, and runs. He is breathless by the time he rounds the last corner around the house, unable to curse its size out loud since he’s too busy wheezing. The rickety staircase couldn’t come to an end fast enough and Jeremy painfully collides with the door.

The doorknob only jiggles when he shakes it in near panic before confusion and realization strike him at the same time. Jeremy bends down in the dark to throw the doormat away and fumble the key into the lock.

TG is sitting on the other side of the room, head thrown back and howling; the sound is painfully filling the room and bouncing off the walls.

On the bed, Richard, laying on his back stiff as a board, groaning loudly through clenched teeth and tightened jaw, eyes full of despair, brimming tears, and utter terror.

Jeremy doesn’t think twice. He rushes to the bed, sits on its edge, and takes Richard in his arms, pressing his upper body close to him.

Finally, finally, it flinches Richard from the prison he’s inflicted himself and he screams into Jeremy’s shoulder at the top of his lungs; a long, tortured sound, bringing more pain in Jeremy’s heart than his ear, and he desperately squeezes Richard even closer.

It’s also too strong to be unleashing just terror. Something else leaves Richard in that long stretch of wailing. Something that got smothered in an uncountable number of glasses of wine hours ago. And Jeremy was never more wrong to offer so, selfishly as he did.

Suddenly, he is completely sober, mind clear. He shushes Richard and a hand comes up on its own to gently stroke his hair. Shushes are broken by occasional whispers of sweet nothings interrupted only by Richard’s harsh breaths; TG has fallen quiet.

He isn’t crying. Richard doesn’t cry openly, ever. He shivers uncontrollably and tries not to give in to limp whines. If silent tears are leaking, Jeremy will pretend he doesn’t see them, as always.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault”, he finds himself mumbling, voice hoarse. It’s always his fault. It’s always his damn fault. It’s his fault he got suspended. It’s his fault the others followed him. It’s his fault Richard is out of a job. It’s his fault Richard is here. He needs to say that out loud, but what good will it bring if it’s already so obvious? Richard should be pushing him away, even as Jeremy needs him more than ever. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rich. Go home. I’ll understand, just… please, I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“No”, strains Richard. He grips Jeremy’s shoulders and presses himself closer. Gasps. Swallows. Begins anew. “Not your fault.”

“It is—”

“Shush. Listen.”

And Jeremy does. Tries to shut up. Just this once. Pushes down a lump and fights the tears of his own. Holds Richard close because if he lets go, he will shatter to pieces in this stupid guest room he hates so much.

“I… I don’t want to go home”, begins Richard in a watery voice. The one that crushes the stoniest hearts. “I can’t be home alone now. Please. It’s too big and too empty and I’ll start to think and… Please don’t make me go.”

Jeremy sniffs and inhales a clogged breath. Tries to compensate for the embarrassment by gathering Richard even nearer, even as at this point they are closer than a limpet and a rock.

“I’m in debt”, continues Richard. His voice shivers with the weight of everything he can’t keep in anymore and Jeremy certainly won’t talk now even if he could. Richard needs to speak. “There is a six-month rent debt I have to pay off from long ago, but I have no income left. It’s not because… it’s been hanging for a while now, and I never told you because… because I had no right and it’s my burden, but I think… I’m going to have to… I’ll have to ditch my 550 Jeremy. It equals the exact amount and I’ve been thinking about it long and hard and I see no other solution. And now… Even less, I…”

“Shhh”, Jeremy catches himself off guard with automatic susurrations, but it calms Richard and Jeremy finds carding his fingers through Richard’s hair serves to calm them both no less efficiently. He sighs. “You idiot. You should’ve told us. We’re your mates.”

“It wasn’t your problem—”

“Shush now. A problem of any size isn’t worth giving your mates heart attacks.” He pauses, and before he can stop himself, “Which is why I wonder how you’re still alive and here.”

Richard’s palm cups the side of his head and Jeremy feels moist lips pressing against his temple. “We will go with you”, a gentle whisper. “Always. Wherever. You _know_ that.”

“Rich…” And just like that, control lost, the weight of everything crashing over him like a ton of bricks, Jeremy, despite not being the one having suffered through a terrible ordeal, succumbs to tears, and Richard’s choked words of comfort only strengthen their flow. They hold onto each other’s presence and comfort like a handful of water in the middle of the desert and no demons under the bed or anywhere else are strong or numerous enough to bring them apart.

Perhaps they doze off on the bed. Perhaps they return to the main part of the house. But for the remainder of the night, they stay together.

* * *

They clean the house the next morning, together. Do the dishes and laundry, clear the table, vacuum the floors. Throw away all the bottles, spread the curtains and open the windows. It’s a beautiful sunny day.

They call James and he calls them stupid pillocks and tells them not to move an inch and that he’s on his way. They don’t even tell him what happened or what’s wrong.

He already seems to know.

Two hours later, he’s there. And he’s holding a cottage pie wrapped in aluminum foil. Somehow still warm.

Over his shoulder, an overnight bag.

He doesn’t recoil or defend himself when Jeremy envelops him in a careful, gentle hug. Instead, he wraps a free arm around his broad back and says nothing. Refuses Jeremy’s repeated apologies. Accepts a kiss on the hair.

After having lunch (a delicious one, but they say it’s ‘rubbish’ because they have to), Richard puts TG on a leash and all three take a long circle around Cotswolds.

Talking. Just talking about everything they can think of.

Things will sort themselves out.

They always do.


End file.
